#hope it’s salient

[tye-wig-music]

to be honest I think fascism’s waxing influence as an intellectual and cultural current in recent years makes perfect sense when one considers the wider context that the history of the far right over the last 30 years has fairly precisely mirrored developments on the left over the same period. it is generally accepted, I think, that between the dissolution of the soviet union and the 2008 financial crash it was more or less impractical if not impossible to form a political constituency drawing for its aims and inspiration on the legacies of actually-existing socialist states; during this time ideologies of both the left and far-right were broadly swept aside in favour of the neo-colonialist centre which arose as the dominant global politics in the vacuum created by the ussr’s fall (after which neither left- nor right-wing parties in the west had anything any longer against which to define themselves: left parties therefore dropped their commitment to public ownership of the means of production while right parties were no longer obliged by political necessity to champion individual liberty as a bulwark against collectivism; this period was thus marked by the tightening of state control over the individual alongside the acceleration of capital accumulation). fascism, like socialism, was (falsely) understood as a spent political force of the twentieth century; its proponents similarly could not allude approvingly to actually-existing fascist projects without eliciting mainstream ridicule. thus the emergence of respectable, euphemistic “fascisms-with-a-human-face” in forms such as Nick Griffin’s British National Party, to take an example from my own country, which sought to empty the ideology of any overt ideological content and were laughed into irrelevance.

the 2008 recession, I think, reawakened the general public in the imperial nations to the fact that the contradictions of capitalism were still actually operational. there are basically two responses to this fact: fascist and communist agitation, the first seeking to artificially prolong the capitalist historical stage and the second seeking to end it. and there you have the explanation for the reemergence of a nakedly fascist current in culture: the ideological far-right is re-appropriating and deploying the signs, symbols and rhetoric of actually-existing fascism, as the left has been engaged in likewise doing those of actually-existing socialism; both are finding purchase with a public widely disillusioned with the post-Cold War status quo.

(as a footnote, anarchist tendencies, constituting a basically impotent political force & never having achieved a lasting actually-existing model on a scale grander than a housing co-op, continued to operate more or less uninterrupted through the said period)

(as a further footnote, the centre is, naturaliter, incapable of resisting the rise of fascism in its own country, partly because it sustains itself by implementing a deeply unpopular political programme and is therefore inherently vulnerable to populist movements, but especially because its aims cohere substantially with the aims of fascism and it can therefore only mount the weakest of defences against it. the criticisms commonly made of trump from the centre-left, for instance (“he’s offensive and tacky”; “he’s slightly more vocally racist or sexist than is acceptable for a politician”), are ineffectual and superficial, because any substantive critique of trump from the centre is impossible without rank hypocrisy. in any case, although certainly the tip of the contemporary fascist spear [surely fasces?], trump seemingly does not believe in any political project bar the narrow service of his own interest, and accordingly, when president, failed to actually implement fascism qua fascism; for my part I fear worst of all what comes after him; whatever naked horror’s mere shadow and prefiguration he comprises)

[kaurwreck]

One of my law professor once said, "You're a lawyer defending your case. There's gotta be blood. It has to be bloody because you're not nice. You shouldn't be nice. You're a lawyer. And you're here to win your case." and although im aware that he said it mostly as a joke—before he said that he pointed one of my classmate to tell him how they'd defend their company in the face of lawsuit and got a little disappointed with how tame my classmate answer was—i can't help but be curious of your thought on that as someone who's working in the field

We are ethically obligated to be zealous advocates for our clients. However, it is immensely difficult to advocate for your client effectively if you've managed to make everyone else involved, including the judge and opposing counsel, angry.

To provide an example, when I was a paralegal at a plaintiff-side workers' compensation firm, opposing counsel once forced our horrifically injured client to travel an hour to our office for a settlement conference, despite not having the authorization to settle for anything close to an amount he should have recognized as reasonable. My attorney, rightfully and righteously furious, laid into him in the middle of our office, humiliating him in front of the parties and our firm. Four days later, my attorney realized we needed a deadline extension, for which we'd have to request opposing counsel's permission. Opposing counsel was gracious enough to agree to the extension, but he very well could have said no after how we spoke to him, and that would have damaged our client's case.

More recently, as a transactional attorney, I was tasked with drafting a disengagement letter addressed to a manufacturer who had failed to design the product my nonprofit client ordered to my client's specifications, which had, for lack of a better term, fucked my client re: my client's other obligations. The law and facts were on our side; if the matter went before a court, we very likely would have won, and easily at that. (For frame of reference, my client serves disadvantaged children. Even the optics were on our side.) But, my client is a nonprofit, and every penny spent on litigation would have been a penny taken from my client's mission. Thus, to zealously advocate for my client, I couldn't go balls to the wall such that the other party became incensed and filed suit or protracted our disengagement process.

You don't have to be nice, but you have to be professional, thoughtful, and strategic. You don't win lawsuits and negotiations from drawing blood. You do so by achieving the outcome that your client asked you to achieve.

[sapphic-luthor]

i forgot what happened in s1 what was astra right about

believing it was necessary to take radical / illegal action to stop the planet from being destroyed (which she was imprisoned for and then the planet was destroyed), but then after her death non morphed her whole plan into “kill everyone everywhere” which obviously was Not Good lmao

[merethicera]

the dude whose content i tend to recommend as a better alternative to pat's unhinged rambling put out a new video in his 3 part skyrim series and he has bad stormcloak takes too

(i dont feel like being eloquent so im just gonna ramble in the tags)

[ruby-red-inky-blue]

#hahaha good thing nothing like this ever happens in our world#hahahaha via @mosylufanfic

“There’s a growing list of things we’ve known and forgotten, things they’ve pushed us to forget. Things like freedom.” | Andor, S01E05 - The Axe Forgets 

[nereidprinc3ss]

drunk in love

in which fem!reader gets extra affectionate with spencer when she's drunk and he's just happy to be there

fluff! warnings/tags: drunk!reader, tooth-rottingly sweet fluff, spencer loves you so bad, short n sweet, that's it a/n: this is for the person who requested spencer taking care of drunk!reader and they're just being really cute and kissy and i lost your request i'm sorry but i hope you see this!! if you guys like this pls let me know, i have spencer helping drunk!r with a bath locked and loaded and its also so cute oh my god i love him goodnight

“Spence,” you say, voice pretty and airy as a song, pressing butterfly-light kisses with soft lips all over the side of his face. 

“What?” he asks fondly, fighting to keep his grip on you secure as you keep trying to fall down and bring him with you. This bar isn’t necessarily a dive, but he’s sure the floor is still sticky and he’s not interested in checking. 

“I really love you so much. I love you so much more than anyone else has ever loved anyone before.” It’s the fourth or fifth time you’ve told him you love him so much in ten minutes, but it doesn’t feel any less wonderful to hear. “Say it back!” you pout, settling against his chest. 

“You didn’t give me time to say it back,” he explains patiently, looking down at you and brushing hair behind your ear. “I love you so much, too, baby.”

Suddenly you’re too flustered and shy to make eye contact. 

“Call me that again.”

Spencer’s brow furrows. His smile flickers wider. 

“What? Baby?” You nod into his chest. He smooths your hair. “I call you baby all the time.”

“Because you love me?”

“Because I love you,” he agrees solemnly. 

You squeak, covering your face with your hands. Not for the first time tonight, he wonders what exactly was in those drinks Penelope kept ordering for you.

“Kiss?”

He gently grabs your wrists. 

“You have to show me that pretty face if you want a kiss.”

Your hands slide down your cheeks and you tilt your head up. Now that your face is on display, pretty and shiny in the low lighting, Spencer ducks down and kisses you sweetly, one hand on the back of your head, the other pulling your wrists down and out of the way. He makes sure to not let it go on for too long. There are still plenty of people around, but more saliently, you are quite drunk. 

“Good?” he asks, brushing a thumb over your cheek as he pulls away.

“Can we kiss forever?”

“We can try,” he muses. 

“I love you,” you say again, plainly. “I wish there was a word stronger than love. I feel like I’ve said love so much it’s lost all its meaning.”

“Keep saying it,” he encourages. “I like hearing it.”

“Can I tell you a secret?” you whisper. Spencer leans down for you to cup your hand to his ear clandestinely. Sweet vanilla perfume still clings to your warm skin, lingering on your neck, mixing with the smell of fruity cocktails on your breath and making him dizzy. “I think JJ has a crush on you.”

He chuckles, straightening. Grieving the loss of your scent for just a second in the back of his mind—until you’re pressing against him anxiously, and it returns. 

“JJ is married, babe. I don’t think so.”

You pout. 

“No, but I really think she does! It makes me sad!”

Spencer doesn’t believe it for a second, but he knows hard logic and persuasion aren’t really going to do much for you right now. So he loops an arm around your waist and reigns you in. 

“You don’t need to be sad, sweetheart. It doesn’t matter who has a crush on me because I have a crush on you.”

“Just me?” you ask anxiously. 

“Just you. You’re the prettiest girl in the world. I have a huge crush on you.”

He realizes his voice has taken on that saccharine quality that Derek would give him shit for, and it’s probably visible in his eyes as he leans close to you, but he doesn’t care at all. 

You raise your chin, wordlessly asking for another kiss. He delivers. The fabric of his shirt tugs where you grab onto it, attempting to bring him closer even when he draws away from the kiss. Of course he allows it, narrowly avoiding stepping on your toes as you pull him to you like a dog on a leash. 

“Can we go home? I wanna cuddle.”

Oh, yeah. If Derek were present he’d have the most ridiculous, shit-eating grin on his face right now. Luckily he’s not here right now, and even if he were, Spencer would still brush your hair aside and say, absolutely we can go home and cuddle. 

“Of course we can. Do you want to say goodbye to everyone?”

“Mm… can we Irish goodbye?”

He chuckles. 

“I think you should say thank you to Penelope for buying you all of those ridiculous drinks that are making you so nice.”

You make a face. 

“I’m always nice.”

“You’re not always this nice,” he reminds you with a small smile, resting his hands on your waist. You frown. 

“In my head I am.”

He kisses your head. It’s impossible not to. 

“I know. Come on, let’s say bye. I want to go home too.”

“You think I’m not usually nice?”

“Of course I don’t think that. I think you’re so nice.”

“Oh my god, can we get ice cream?” You gasp, already distracted and pulling him along by the hand as you weave through the sparse crowd. 

He smiles to himself, happy to follow your lead as long as you don’t let go. 

“We can definitely get ice cream. We can do whatever you want.”

[floral-ashes]

For Nature’s new series on sex/gender, I wrote with the amazing Shari Brightly-Brown and G Nic Rider about gender modality, the limits of the cis/trans binary, and how to study gender more respectfully and accurately.

Gender modality is a term I coined in 2019 that has picked up a lot of steam in the last few years. It refers to the relationship between someone’s gender identity and gender assigned at birth. It’s a lot like ‘sexual orientation’ but for trans/cis instead of gay/straight.

The term helps us be more accurate and more respectful when describing the experiences of trans people, and opens up space beyond the trans/cis binary.

For instance, it’s often more accurate to say that discrimination against trans people is based on gender modality than based on gender identity. After all, a trans woman has the same gender identity as a cis woman, so that’s not the salient point.

There are also many people who don’t neatly fall in the trans/cis binary, and gender modality helps us talk about that. Non-binary people who don’t identify as cis or trans, gender questioning folks, detrans folks, people with culturally-specific identities, etc.

Our world is incredibly rich with experiences and our language should reflect that. As we say in the paper, the first step in science shouldn’t be assuming, it should be to engage in the world in all its magnificent complexity.

I am grateful to our editor for the opportunity to publish in such a prestigious journal with such amazing coauthors. I hope you all enjoy the read!

For those who prefer to listen, here’s an audio version.

[hedgehog-moss]

Welcome to the great donkey contest of 2024

I must confess that I, once again, forgot the date of the yearly donkey contest, so I had to leave early (I had a restaurant reservation in another town) and have no idea what was the jury's verdict on each of these donkeys. Therefore, you are the jury. It will be heartbreaking, but I will ask you to vote at the end of the post, setting aside the known fact that all donkeys are the best donkey.

There were Poitou donkeys, Berry donkeys, Bourbonnais donkeys, Provence donkeys, Andalusian donkeys, and common donkeys who seemed to have no distinguishing features other than being acceptably donkey-shaped. I can't possibly post all my photos, so I have chosen 4 noteworthy contestants (or 3 and half, one is very small) for you to vote on. I'll add that I only stayed long enough to watch 2 donkeys demonstrate their skills, so in a spirit of fairness I will not mention anyone's job. You won't be voting based on how good they are doing their specific donkey job but on how good they are at being a donkey.

Donkey #1 — CHEWBACCA.

Chewbacca is big, and he has ears. These are his most salient characteristics. Each one of his ears looks like a separate fluffy ferret-sized mammal attached to his head, gently twitching or napping. Chewbacca's hooves are the diameter of a medium pizza and he looks very formidable but he is extremely kind. I know the most pressing question is "Can I scritch Chewbacca's ears?" and the answer is yes, but then he will immediately appoint you ear-scritcher in chief and will look very sad when you walk away to meet other donkeys.

Chewbacca's ears on their own could be enough to let him win Hairiest Donkey in any contest—but he is mixed breed, and there were purebred baudets du Poitou in attendance. Their entire identity is "the hairy one", and giving the Hairiest trophy to another donkey would result in massive spread of existentialism among Poitou donkeys.

(He is not a contestant, as I didn't have time to get a good aperçu of his personality.)

(Same for this shiny black donkey, pictured here canoodling with a Poitou lady—unfortunately I don't have photos of him in motion, but believe me when I say he was the glossiest donkey I've ever seen. When walking or trotting he shone in the sun like a freshly-polished dress shoe.)

Back to our contest.

Donkey #2 — UGOLIN.

Ugolin (who seems to go by "Glin") is a shaggy, gangly teenage boy whose main characteristic is being utterly love-starved. Left unattended, Ugolin would wander about the donkey contest, stopping in front of every child or adult he encountered, hoping someone would love him.

I was initially the only human Ugolin did not want cuddles from, because he was scared of Pandolf and seemed to think of me as his minion. Then I tied Pandolf to a tree and crouched down a few metres away from Glin, unsure if I had a chance now—and after hesitating for about 2 seconds he came over to kiss my forehead. My friend was so touched by this moment that she (somehow) got her phone to turn her photo into an impressionist painting.

"Can I scritch Glin's ears?" Yes. He is desperate for someone to pet his ears.

Donkey #3

—no, sorry, it's Ugolin again. It's very hard to get rid of him.

Donkey #3 — THE BABY.

The baby has no name. The baby has no skills. The baby is not good at anything other than being tiny enough to walk under her mum's belly. In the absence of any other qualifications she was happy to show off what is possibly the most low-effort limbo dance in the world.

"Can I scritch the baby's ears?" No. Big point against her, here. She will, however, come over if you say "awww le petit ânon <3" and let you pet her tiny nose. (More nose photos in this post if you missed it)

Donkey #ah no wait here's Ugolin again

He actually overcame his intense fear of Pandolf to come trap us in his forcefield of infinite neediness! I'm proud of him.

Donkey #4 — MYRTILLE.

Myrtille is in her mid-thirties, and did not come to the donkey fair to demonstrate any particular skills or be admired by us, but because she likes to meet new donkeys. She was not tethered to the rope and yet did not wander around to mingle with humans like other untied donkeys did; she shuffled from one end of the rope to the other like a friendly pensioner at a continental breakfast buffet, making small talk with everyone. It was hard to approach Myrtille (as a human) without feeling like a third wheel.

I don't mean to gossip, but she spent quite a while flirting with the glossy black donkey.

I love her. She's my favourite. I was not able to pet her or take a good close-up photo of her but that's okay. Myrtille is like a tempting rollercoaster at an amusement park that you are barred from by the sign that says "You must have ears THIS long to go any farther." I wish her only good things.

[chronicgrahaposting]

looking back on this with new added context and also

this set of vivi looks

my god. he really looks dead here. the light literally disappears from his eyes every time he goes away from his little escape in the first. like more than ever i can feel that immense sense of burnout weighing on him. the way that his expression, looking back on the source, mirrors his expression during an honest-to-god near death experience really puts things into perspective. he really fits the description of "dead inside"

i was originally going to write about how he was like the exarch; in the sense that he was a dead man walking. but now that i think about it, they really mirror each other in a lot of ways. the exarch is a figure trapped in death, who violently, undescribably, wants to experience life. vivi is a figure who absolutely cannot die lest the world goes with him, who romanticises the idea of death so much that his big crush is the guy who showed up before he almost died. they both tow the line between life and death, yet theyre on opposite sides; so close, yet so far. they both yearn, by nature, yet for completely different things.

........man vivi kinda sounds like emet here. wonder why

✧✦✧ "Fragments" - episode 52 ✧✦✧

Mirage.

New reader? episode list on tumblr | webtoon Read 4 more episodes: patreon | kofi

[ace-whovian-neuroscientist]

I do really love the current Tardis, the ramps and cool lights and the jukebox and it’s just so futuristic and fun.

But something I was really hoping to see was how it would evolve as it was lived in. All the little trinkets and clutter and coats strewn over the railings. Where is the dirt? Where are the reading nooks? Hell even a few plants!

It’s so futuristic that it feels almost sterile. All that harsh light and solid white and unoccupied space.

Sure I guess it could be a metaphor for something internally for 15, but right now it just feels like a missed opportunity, especially in the context of trying to cram characterization and Ruby and 15’s bond in 8 episodes.

I have no art skills so join me in the theater of the mind:

14’s Tardis full of little souvenirs because Donna loves bits and bobs to remember where they went and Rose is an equally menacing collector. A chaotic shoe corner by the door. Sting lights wrapped around the railings. A corner dedicated to Rose’s crafts, a scraps of felt scattered and a few lovingly placed googly eyes that make the Doctor smile when he finds them. A picture wall, a too-plush couch, and some glow in the dark stars dangerously placed on the ceiling.

15’s Tardis still looking brand new despite months of traveling. Maybe a few post-it notes on the console. A jukebox that is rarely touched. All that extra space making Ruby’s absence even more apparent and constantly salient. The lights are bright white and the walls are bare and the metal is shiny. There’d be an echo if the Doctor had someone else to talk to.

[neil-gaiman]

Hi Neil! It was really nice to meet you and your daughter at the concert earlier this evening.

I didn't have the presence of mind to say it earlier, but I wanted to tell you that I really enjoyed your book American Gods. I read it a few years back and your ideas were really salient and have stuck with me, I still think about them—about how America is uniquely constructed by beliefs and people and cultures from other places, the cryptidness of America (ex. its roadside attractions), and how religions and powers are supported by belief and devotion which ebb and flow and die over time.

I'm thankful that I learned about the magnetic fields through your recommendation, and it was really fun to experience the album performed live. Hope you had a great evening and an amazing time at the concert!

~ Caroline

We had a marvelous time. Thank you for coming over and saying hello!

[dilf-lover99]

And I Love Her | J.P.

Pairing: James Potter x Female Reader

Summary: The 3 times James tries to get the girl and the 1 time he finally does. Or In which James Potter is hopelessly in love with his best friend.

Warnings: so. much. pining., idiots to lovers, miscommunication(s), a dash of angst, some heavy kissing, james potter being the literal definition of boyfriendism

Word Count: 4.8k

a/n: hi ! james potter won the poll and i am so completely okay with it. i really intended for this to be angst but he's just SO boyfriend. this may be my favorite thing i've ever written and i really hope you enjoy it too ! p.s. i missed u guys lots and i'm so grateful you've stuck around after months of crickets from me. love u love u love u<3

(y/n).

Depending on who you asked, it was only a name. The name of a classmate, or a friend, or yourself, but only a name nonetheless.

Unless you asked James Potter.

It wasn’t only a name. Not to him. To James, it was everything.

Because it was your name.

Your name that hastened his heartbeat with every mention.

Your name that sent a salient stream of blood rushing to his cheeks, tinting them a lucent shade of scarlet.

Your name that, once mentioned, seemed to follow him everywhere, as though the wind itself would begin whispering it, rustling alongside the branches of the whomping willow tree before floating its way over to his ears, sounding sweeter than any melody he’d ever heard before.

To state it simply, James Potter was irrevocably, inconceivably, in love with you.

But saying it that way didn’t seem like enough.

He didn’t just love you with his heart, for his heart could stop beating. And he didn’t only love you with his mind, for his memories could fail him one day. James Potter loved you with the entirety of his soul, with every fibre making up his being. Of that, he was certain.

What he wasn’t certain of however, was how to bare his infatuated soul to you.

After all, how exactly does one tell his best friend he’s besotted with her?

He tried the gentle approach first. 

The train back to Hogwarts was filling up quickly. Stories of his peers’ summer holidays flow obstreperously through the air as James’ eyes remain glued to the door of him and his friends’ usual compartment.

“Ease off it with the evil eye, Prongs. She’ll be here.” Sirius’ teasing voice breaks James away from his thoughts, which were unsurprisingly fixated on you.

He doesn’t bother denying it, well aware he’s been staring daggers at the door since he stepped foot off platform 9 ¾, anxiously awaiting your appearance after spending the entire summer holiday apart from you.

“Leave him be, Pads. He misses her.” Remus interjects kindly, not lifting his eyes from the well-worn pages of whichever book he’s decided to burrow his attention into for the ride back to Hogwarts.

“Well he can join the bloody club then, can’t he?” Sirius starts, intent on ignoring Remus’ suggestion, “I’ve just about fallen for her myself after spending my entire holiday listening to this git recite his bloody sonnets for her,” he continues with a not-so flattering mimicry of a lovesick James, “It is the east! And (y/n) is the sun. O Romeo!” He throws himself dramatically to the floor on his knees, clasping his hands above his heart.

Peter watches the spectacle with a grin, covering up his chuckle with a cough after James sends him a look of warning. Before James can defend himself against Sirius’ melodrama, the door to their compartment slides open, revealing a beautiful and slightly out of breath you.

And suddenly you’re not the only one who’s out of breath.

You’ve gotten even prettier over the summer, somehow. If somebody had asked James before, if he thought you could possibly have gotten any more beautiful, he’d’ve laughed in their face, telling them tales of how your beauty could put Aphrodite to shame. But now? Now his heart was beating so violently in his chest he was almost certain it was attempting to escape, trying to take its rightful place upon your sleeve.

“Sorry I’m late, I nearly broke my neck out there!” You stop briefly to catch your breath, the jog on your way over winding you more than you’d care to admit. “Someone ought to tell those first-years there’s enough seats on here for the lot of us. I’ve just been walloped by a bloody eleven year old! Cheeky little-” You cease your rambling amidst your confusion at the sight before you, Sirius on his knees at James’ feet.

“Have I interrupted something? Perhaps a proposal of sorts?” You jest, your amusement growing at the wide eyed look on James’ face as he scrambles to stand, coming to greet you properly with a hug that doesn’t last nearly as long as you wish it would.

“No!” He protests instantly, amidst wrapping you in the soft embrace.

“Cor, I’ve missed you.” He mumbles after pulling away, leaving a hand on your back as he gently guides you to your seat beside him, hesitant to do so, as once you’re sat he’ll no longer have an excuse to touch you.

“I missed you more!” Your enthusiasm brings him optimism, there’s a chance she means it the way you do, he thinks, there’s a chance-

“And what of me?” Sirius and his bloody interjections. James has half a mind to lock him out of the ruddy compartment and leave him to fend for himself amongst the overzealous first-years.

“I’m sorry, have we met?” You feign confusion, though not very well, James can see the brilliant smile forming leisurely upon your lips. What I would do to those lips, his thoughts are running rampant after a summer spent away from your presence, too caught up to hear the jokes you and Sirius are trading back and forth, and that laugh! His internal monologue continues, ’s like a proper bloody song. Just ask her, right now. If she says no you can play it off as a joke. It might sting a bit, but surely it’d be better than keeping it all locked away.

“Will you go to Hogsmeade with me? Just us two? We’ll have a lovely time, I swear it.”

He knows what he was hoping you’d say, something along the lines of ‘Yes, James, I’d love to!’ but he wasn’t expecting it.

He also wasn’t expecting your given response.

“That’s a wonderful idea, Jamie, thank you! D’you see that, Sirius? A helpful suggestion. You ought to try one of those sometime.” You’re back to chatting with Sirius and Remus as Peter leans over to James, whispering an explanation to his visibly confused friend.

James had caught you mid-complaint about how you’d forgotten to bring the dittany leaves you need to make the special healing chocolates you gift Remus after a particularly bad full moon. After Sirius’ not-so-helpful suggestion to try substituting them with pot leaves, you gladly welcomed the chance to pop over to Hogsmeade with James and buy some more.

You’d mistaken his date proposal for a shopping trip.

Marvellous.

This is going to be the year that James tells you how he feels. He’ll make sure of it.

If for no other reason than this was your seventh and final year at Hogwarts together. His stomach churned at the mere idea of allowing you to slip through his fingers for good; you acting as the coarse sand to his adamant hourglass. He wouldn’t have it.

So he’d try again.

In the few weeks since you’ve returned to Hogwarts, your time’s been consumed by studying for your N.E.W.T.s. You’re also determined to acquire a spot in the internship programme at St. Mungo’s. The sheer amount of time you’ve spent there with your boys over the last few years has more than prepared you for a future as a healer if you end up enjoying the work.

“Alright, who was the first witch to extract floo powder?” James has spent the last hour and a half quizzing you on all matters Herbology, if it were anyone else he’d’ve been bored to slumber by now. But it wasn’t anyone else, it was you.

The two of you were sat outside together on a blanket, taking full advantage of the uncharacteristically sunny day. James is leaned comfortably back against a tree as you sit across from him, simultaneously taking notes and answering each of his questions without pause.

“Ignatia Wildsmith. Ravenclaw. Come ‘ead James, I’ve told you to stop going easy on me! Every seventh-year applying will know all of these.” Bloody lucky I love her so much, James thinks to himself, I thought that was a hard one.

He’d like to laugh your nerves away, crack a few jokes and tell you that you may be going a bit overboard. You’re going to get the internship, and not just because you’re brilliant and perfectly qualified, but also because your Herbology professor had written a glowing recommendation letter singing your praises.

But he can’t find it in himself to mess around when you’ve got that adorable little wrinkle between your eyebrows displaying your worry, and your lips have turned down into a delectably kissable pout. It takes nearly everything in him not to brush it away with his own lips. 

“(y/n),” He starts, wetting his lips with his tongue as he desperately attempts to keep his thoughts from overtaking his voice, “It’s going to be alright, I promise. You’re more than ready for this. Why don’t we try taking a little break?” His heart feels as though it’s leapt into his throat when you glance at him and send a delicate smile of gratitude.

“I’m sorry, Jamie. We’ve been at this for hours, you must be exhausted of me by now.” You smile, more cheerful this time as you realize a break is precisely what you need.

James can’t contain the laugh that escapes him.

Exhausted? Of you? 

The absurdity of thinking he could ever grow tired of you was an inherently laughable concept to him.

He’s nearly clutching his stomach when he finally manages to compose himself, making heart-stopping eye contact with his equally amused and puzzled best friend.

“Are you mad?” James’ dimpled smile sets a kaleidoscope of butterflies aflutter in your stomach, “I’d spend all my hours with you if I could.” He means it with every atom that makes up his being, he’s meant it for years but now he’s actually saying it to you.

Your smile grows wider with each word he speaks, your own thoughts matching the underlying sentiment of his articulation more than he could ever know.

“I-” He pauses, inhaling deeply and squeezing his eyes shut tightly in an effort to maintain his courage, “I love you.” You did it, he thinks to himself proudly, you actually bloody did it, Prongs! He exhales shakily, reinitiating eye contact with you as a small smile begins to blossom on his tender lips.

“James,” Your voice holds an underlying tone of sadness that causes an adorable crinkle of confusion to settle between James’ eyebrows, “I love you too.” You smile tightly, almost as though it’s causing you discomfort to do so.

“You do?” James is more perplexed now than he had been when you’d explained to him in painstaking detail the intricate relationships between each member of Fleetwood Mac the first time the two of you listened to Rumours together.

“Of course I do,” Your smile stretches intimately, the somber quality of your voice never wavering, “You’re my best mate, after all.”

Best mate? James thinks, is that really all she sees?

Had he not been so caught up in his own racing thoughts, he may have picked up on yours. He may have realized that his situation was holding a gargantuan mirror up to your own, casting a perfect reflection of the feelings within.

Best mates, you internally chastise yourself, that’s all he sees.

A proper bloody mirror.

“It was completely humiliating, Pads. She might as well’ve called me her bloody brother.” James has been yammering on about what happened that day for the past three weeks. Three weeks. Sirius is going positively mad, somehow having become James’ sounding board to rehash his complaints every time he remembers the encounter.

“I mean, how am I supposed to tell the girl I’d like to spend the rest of my life with her now?” James is pacing back and forth agitatedly at the foot of Sirius’ bed, as the aforementioned boy lays back uninterestedly, wishing his duvet would come to life and swallow him whole in an effort to escape the worlds most redundant conversation.

“She’d probably tell you that sounds lovely. Make you her future child’s godparent.” Sirius jokes dryly.

James abandons his invisible footpath, a wave of panic comically widening his warm hazel eyes substantially.

“She what?”

“For Merlin’s sake, Prongs! I can’t take any more of this,” Sirius sits up agitatedly, now far beyond his capacity for James’ lovesick commentaries, “Just go tell her. Right now.”

“Are you mad? Have you not just heard everything I’ve said?” James would normally find humour in Sirius’ lackadaisical attitude, but confessing his feelings for you was an entirely serious matter with no margin for error.

“Oh I’ve heard it, Prongs. For the past three weeks. And the entire bloody summer. And every single year before that.” He moves to stand in front of James, his agitation fading into sincerity, “I know how you feel, Prongs. But does she?” James swallows thickly as Sirius continues, “I don’t mean just telling her you love her, I mean telling her how you love her. As more than a friend. Maybe she feels the same way.”

James takes his time considering Sirius’ words. He’s tried to tell you, clearly, but he assumed that you’d only seen him as a friend. But what if you hadn’t? What if Sirius is right, and you told him you loved him as a friend because you’d assumed that’s what he’d meant when he said it?

“I’m a proper git, aren’t I?” James concludes aloud.

“Most certainly, Prongsy. It’s why I keep you around,” Sirius’ playful mood returns swiftly, “Makes me feel better about myself.” 

You’re talking softly with Remus in the library, voices low enough not to disrupt your peers but just detectable enough for James to catch your words when he finds you, internally preparing his declaration of unwavering devotion for you.

“You’re not going out with him, are you?” Remus’ hushed voice holds a curious tone.

“Of course not, Rem.” You smile softly, “Could you honestly imagine that? Him and I dating?”

James’ eyebrows furrow together in confusion, he presses himself slightly against a nearby bookshelf in an attempt to hear your conversation more clearly.

“No, I guess not,” Remus chuckles faintly, “It would certainly make things awkward if they didn’t work out. Being friends and all.” 

“No kidding.” You chuckle good-naturedly. 

James feels like a bag of cement has been poured down his throat, constricting his lungs and settling into a block of concrete in the pit of his stomach.

Sirius had been wrong. You didn’t love James as more than a friend, in fact, you’d practically laughed at the thought of it. In his hasty escape from the scene of the melancholic crime, James neglected to hear the rest of your conversation with Remus.

“He’s a lovely lad, truly,” You smile genuinely, “Any girl would be lucky to call Amos Diggory her boyfriend. We’re just better as friends is all.” You trail off, leaving out the part where your heart already belongs to another shared friend of yours and Remus’.

It’s not like it was ever going to happen anyway. Your love for James Potter was entirely unreciprocated.

Wasn’t it?

James is avoiding you.

As painful as it is to spend each never-ending moment of spare time away from you, James can only think of how much more agonizing it would be to spend those moments with you.

To fix his loving gaze on your sparkling eyes, only to find them filled with affections one would hold only for a friend.

To accomplish the feat of bringing a luminous smile to your delicate lips, only to remember those lips would never brush tenderly against his own.

To be so close to the girl he loves, only to be denied her heart in equal measure.

It’s easier, in a sense, to push you away.

It’s only temporary, just until he can stomach the thought of spending the rest of his life as your best mate and nothing more.

But it’s been weeks, and the idea still makes his head feel like it’s underwater, like he’s fighting to reach the surface but his leg’s been caught on a viciously determined blade of seaweed.

Still, he’s convinced himself that this is his best course of action.

Unbeknownst to James, however, you’ve been going stark raving mad.

You’ve hardly spoken to him in weeks. When you think about it, you’ve barely even seen him, save for a few quick glimpses in your classes and across the dining tables in the Great Hall.

You’ve tried to talk to him, clearly something is bothering him. Maybe you’ve said or done something to upset him without realizing it. But he’d brushed you off before you could even get out the words ‘are you alright?’

You’d asked Remus, Sirius, and Peter about it, each of them giving you vague semblances of justification that fell entirely flat, a few “He’s just busy with quidditch”s and a couple of “Must be studying today”s. You’ve grown tired of the excuses and you’re determined to get to the bottom of it yourself.

You’re leaning picturesquely against the wall outside of the lad’s changing room when James finally sees you again. His curly hair is spilling droplets of water from the shower he’s just taken, successfully washing away the evidence of his quidditch practice.

You’re beautiful. That’s all he can think as he finally allows himself to take you in fully for the first time in weeks. He feels like he’s been holding his breath since he saw you last and now he can finally exhale, a sense of euphoria filling his chest as his lungs deflate mercifully.

“Hi.” You state gently, a delicate smile painted daintily across your lips.

“Hi.” James echoes once he’s relearned the inhale-exhale repetition of breathing again.

“I waited for you,” You start after a brief silence, “Which- You can see that, obviously.” You chuckle a ebullient breath that causes a small smile to form on James’ face, Merlin, I’ve missed that, he thinks as you continue. “I just, um- I thought maybe we could talk?” You’re fiddling with your fingers, a nervous habit of yours that James has long since memorized by now.

He instantly reaches for your hands, tenderly taking one in his own and carefully intertwining your fingers together with his. The action is like second nature, he hardly thinks twice about it.

You smile visibly at the act of comfort, if he’s upset with you and that’s the reason he’s been avoiding you, it makes your heart skip a beat that he’s putting it all aside to calm you down when you’re anxious.

“About what?” He tries, though you both know that’s not going to work.

“Nice,” You smile teasingly, “Want to give it a real go this time?”

James swallows something akin to a lump in his throat, averting his resplendent hazel gaze from your eyes to land somewhere along the floor as he overthinks which approach he should take.

He could try honesty. Yes, he thinks, because that would go over proper well. I’m avoiding you cause I’ve been gutted since I heard you’re not in love with me. Surely she’ll find that real mature, Prongs.

He could also try lying his arse off. And that would work, he sarcastically chastises silently, Me? Oh nothing’s wrong at all. Just tired, y’know? Practice and homework and the like. As if she’s ever believed a lie you’ve told her before.

He finally chances resuming eye contact with you, heartbeat hastening expeditiously as his hazel orbs lock onto your patently awaiting eyes. You should be looking far more frustrated, James wouldn’t blame you if you were. You have every right to be upset, and yet you’re not.

Instead, you’re you. 

You, who’s calmly awaiting a response, fingers still gently intertwined with James’. 

You, who’s looking at him with soft, sparkling eyes, eyes that are silently promising him no matter what he says, everything is going to be alright.

You, the girl he loves more than anything in the world.

“You.” He states after an implicit eternity.

“Me?” Your features mix together to create a perfectly darling display of confusion that, even despite the circumstances, causes a modest smile to tug upwards at the corners of James’ mouth.

“I’ve been avoiding you.” He conveys, sounding as though he’s just revealed to you a hidden secret you’d’ve never otherwise been able to uncover.

You can’t contain the short laugh that escapes you, a smile taking its rightful place on your face. “Yeah, ‘m not exactly Sherlock Holmes, but I managed to put that one together.”

James can’t subdue the traces of guilt that seep onto his face.

“I was hoping maybe we could talk about why. If I’ve done something to upset you-”

“No!” James cuts you off, “No, love, you haven’t done anything. Nothing you could control anyway.” His voice is less than half of its usual volume at the last sentence he utters.

Your face is back to holding that adorably confused expression that James so desperately yearns to kiss away.

“I have to admit, Jamie, I’ve got no idea what you’re on about.”

James sighs, finally releasing the hand that’s been holding comfortably on to your own and running it through his leisurely drying hair. He releases a sigh of distress and squeezes his eyes shut firmly in an attempt to figure out the best way to explain himself.

“If you’re not upset with me, then why have you been avoiding me?” You’re trying to put it together on your own as James is proving to be no help, “Wait a mo! Is this some kind of prank or something?” You smile, though you’re not entirely certain you’re correct yet, “Are you trying to get back at me for dying your knickers pink? Because that was an accident!” 

James can’t help but smile at your incorrect deduction. Merlin she’s adorable he thinks, how am I supposed to tell her now?

“Yes!” James concludes untruthfully, “You got me. Just a prank. Might’ve gone a bit too far with it though. Sorry ‘bout that, love.”

He brings you into a hug and, after going weeks without it, it feels like home.

You feel like home.

You’re hugging James, after having just gone weeks without it. And you just know. 

You have to tell him.

You have to tell him, right now, that you’re in love with him.

And so you do.

“I love you.” You state breathlessly, pulling away from the warm solace of his embrace and looking bravely into his glimmering hazel eyes.

James nods his head mechanically, as if he’s agreeing to your suggestion on what to have for dinner and not taking in the confession of eternal love you’ve just spouted.

“Yes, I love you too,” He smiles a tight, strained smile, “Mate.” He punctuates his final word by bumping his fist gently into your shoulder.

Oh, you think, I’m going to have to spell it out for him, aren’t I?

“No, James. I love you,” You take a step closer to him, not breaking eye contact despite the nerves that are jostling around your insides like a violent sea in a raging storm, taking a deep breath before exhaling somewhat expeditiously, you continue, “Like- Like, I’m in love with you.”

The first thing James feels in that moment are his eyes widening emphatically behind his round-rimmed glasses, his dark lashes making direct contact with the top of his eyelids. He’s certain he must have heard you wrong, that or he’s understood you wrong.

The second thing he feels is hope. What if he hadn’t understood you wrong?

The third thing he feels is his heart, beating faster than it ever has before, so fast he thinks it might be ready to do him in for good. Surely a heart shouldn’t be beating that fast.

“You’re in love? With me?” James speaks disbelievingly, though he’s unable to hide the traces of optimism he’s feeling as a modest smile begins to form on his face.

You nod your head assuredly, a genial smile of your own starting at the sight of his, “Yes, I’m in love with you. Madly, in fact.”

You’ve spent months, years even, deliberating on how you would tell James, if you would tell James. You’d spent countless hours wondering how he would react and what would happen after all was said and done.

You’d planned to tell him all about that. About how long you’ve felt this way, when it started and why it’s taken you so long to tell him, how you were too afraid of risking your best friend should anything have gone wrong.

What you hadn’t planned on was what happened the second you got the last word out.

James eagerly presses his plush lips onto your own, savouring the long overdue sensation of your mouth against his. He tenderly brushes your bottom lip with his tongue once he feels you respond to the kiss with equal fervour. Enthusiastically, you grant his tongue access into your mouth, pulling him closer to you by the roots of his damp hair.

James lets out a low groan at the contact, pulling you flush against his body by your waist, his hands hungrily gripping onto you for dear life as, somehow, the kiss deepens even further.

When the need for oxygen outweighs your mutual need for each others lips, you reluctantly part the slightest of distances, foreheads resting tenderly against one another.

“I’m in love you too. So bloody madly.” James whispers contentedly with a lovesick grin. 

You’re each donning smiles brighter than you can ever recall before.

The moment you’ve caught your breath you’re back at it again in full force, gripping at each others clothes and tangling nimble fingers through the other’s hair. James pulls back when your beaming smile makes it a little harder for him to kiss you, returning a smile just as wide that compels you to pull him back in for another kiss, or two, or three.

When the two of you finally feel satiated enough, James pulls back again, a noticeably farther distance. He’s still smiling but it isn’t quite as bright as it was a moment ago.

“What was all that about in the library, then? With Moony?” He asks you the question that’s been clawing at his insides for the last few weeks.

You pause, visibly confused as you shuffle through the files of your memories until you land on one a few weeks ago with Remus in the library. The two of you were discussing a friend who’d asked you on a date. You’d declined as politely as you could, valuing his friendship but knowing your heart had long since been beating for James.

“What about it?” You smile confusedly.

“Well, you were talking about me, weren’t you?” James looks down to the floor, expression now almost devoid of the happiness that had previously overtaken every inch of his face.

“What?” You laugh briefly before it registers, not just his words, but the reason he’s been avoiding you for the last few weeks.

“Wait- James!” You tilt your head into his line of vision, gently cradling his face with your hand as you turn his head to face you fully, “Is that why you’ve been avoiding me? You thought.. Oh, Merlin.”

You pull him into a hug, holding him tight enough to convey just how wrong he’s been.

“I was talking about Amos Diggory.” You state with a gentle exhale, something between a laugh and a sigh, pulling back you rest your arms at your sides. “He asked me to dinner.”

James doesn’t hide the relief that courses through his body, despite the slight scoff of jealousy he lets out at your final sentence.

“But,” You wrap your arms back around him in reassurance, looking up into his eyes that are once again sparkling with happiness, “I’ve been a tad busy, being in love with my best friend and all. So I told him no. Obviously.”

“Right, obviously.” James replies with a cheeky smile that makes your heart skip a beat.

“You’re a git, you know.” You roll your eyes, the action a mixture of lovesickness and frustration. “You could’ve just asked me then. Instead of hiding in the books like a proper stalker. And then avoiding me. For weeks,” You’re smiling, but you know you’re still getting your point across, “You git.” You punctuate your final word with a gentle swat to James’ chest, smiling adoringly when he grabs that hand and brings it up to his lips, placing a tender kiss to it before dropping your intertwined hands back at your side.

“I know,” He admits apologetically, “I’m sorry.” He’s smiling breathtakingly, “Still love me?”

You can’t find it in yourself to be upset with him, because in some roundabout way, it’s what led you to this moment right now, where you can reach over and kiss him if you want to.

And you want to. 

Pulling him into you by the fabric of his shirt, you plant another kiss upon James’ lips. The passion and tenderness in the kiss meld together just as perfectly as your lips do.

“Yes.” You mumble happily when your mouths finally break apart. “Always.”

[lovebugism]

Eddie x Gareths sisterrrrr????? Like Romeo and Juliet type stuff where Gareth is like my sister is NOT dating you

thanks so much for your request, anon!! i had so much fun writing it!! there isn't much conflict with gareth, but i hope you like it anyway! jealous!eddie x girly!reader (1.6k)

bug's summer fic fest ♡

Gareth picks you up from the mall at six o’clock sharp.

You say goodbye to your friends, all of them wearing the same tank top and pleated skirt duo you’re in, before getting into the passenger seat of his pick-up truck. You’re dressed too nicely to be sat in such a beaten-up thing. Too pretty for it, too.

“Wanna get something to eat?” the boy asks as he pulls out of the parking lot, talking over the Dio song blaring on the radio.

He’s wearing his usual flannel vest over a tattered Metallica tee. The former is riddled with various vintage pins fitting for a metalhead. Down to his skull necklace, ripped jeans, and dirty sneakers — the two of you couldn’t be more different.

You flip down the visor and use the mirror to put on a swipe of glittery lipgloss. You feel almost naked without it. “Slurpees?” you offer before smacking your mouth to spread the sparkly glaze.

“That’s so not dinner,” Gareth laughs as he shakes his sandy curls. 

You arch a manicured brow in his direction. “Got a better idea?”

“Nope,” he concedes, popping the ‘p.’

He’s got too much of a soft spot for you to deny you of anything. Perks of being the youngest sibling, you suppose.

You feel butterflies fluttering like crazy in your stomach, their wings brushing the edges of your ribcage as he pulls into the gas station — and it’s not because of the $1 Slurpees. Your stepbrother’s best friend, Eddie Munson, usually deals drugs in the back parking lot on weekends. Like the absolute dreamboat he is. 

It’s been days since you last saw him. Six of them, to be exact, but it’s not like you’re counting or anything.

While Gareth waits in line to pay for your drink and his food, you decide to quell your yearning. It’s much more like a hunger, though. Whatever innocent crush you used to have is far more salient now. You miss Eddie like a dinner you didn’t get to eat — noticeably empty, weakened without his smile to bring you back to life.

You round the corner to the back lot and find him flipping through a wad of cash. He leans against the brick wall with one dirty sneaker kicked up against it. Despite the middle of summer head, he hasn’t yet forgone his leather jacket and dark denim jeans duo. He looks killer, as usual — so you could only imagine how he’d look out of them.

When he hears the sound of footsteps scuffing against pavement, he looks at you from the corner of his eye. His gaze is halfway hidden beneath his fluffy bangs before he turns to face you wholly. 

He grins at the sight of you, and you fill whole again.

“Hi, Teddy,” you greet with a smile, stained blue from your raspberry Slurpee.

He rises on both feet and tucks the money into the back pocket of his baggy jeans. His head tilts to his shoulder as he looks at you, too cute for his own good. “Whatcha doin’ out here, princess?”

Your stomach flutters at the nickname you’ve heard too many times to count. 

“Came to see you,” you shrug innocently, curling your smile around the straw of your drink.

Eddie beams, brows raising in amusement and cheeks reddening at your answer. He hopes you’re too far away to see his cheeks glowing as pink as they are now. He’d just blame it on the summer heat, anyway. 

“Really?” he lilts, voice light and airy with mirth.

You shrug as you swallow down the fruity slushy. “Gareth brought me for Slurpees.”

“How sweet.”

“Right?” you hum with a blue-tinted smirk, slowing when you finally reach the boy. His weed-tinged, woody musk envelopes you completely — he might as well be embracing you. “Best brother ever.”

Gareth isn’t really your brother, despite how often you call him that. You’re related by marriage, not by blood. You’ve known him your entire life, though, so you figure you might as well be.

Eddie knows this, so he smiles and takes a rather dramatic step back from you. “And that is exactly why I have to stay approximately three feet away from you at all times, princess.”

“Why’s that?” you squint at him.

When you take another step closer, he takes two more back.

“‘Cause he’s been threatening to beat my ass about dating you since we were thirteen.”

A smile quirks the right side of your lips. “Well, what he doesn’t know won’t hurt him,” you lilt.

Eddie’s brows raise at the mischievous inflection in your words. This time when you step towards him, he stays in place. “You’d really do that to him? To the ‘best brother ever?’”

You take another daring step towards him. Your chin tilts up to look at him in your ever-shortening proximity. “I’ve done far worse things than think his best friend is hot, Teddy.”

“Yeah?” the boy coos, chocolate eyes dancing with amusement as his chin dips to his chest to peer down at you. He makes the mistake of looking lower — at your breasts in your pretty little tank top and the silver of your stomach showing beneath the hem. He wants so desperately to hold you, despite everything that tells him he shouldn’t. His best friend, namely.

“And what’s that, princess?” the boy croons to you.

“I don’t kiss and tell,” you blink innocently up at him, then shrug. “Sorry.”

Eddie knows he shouldn’t be jealous, but he is. 

You’re not his, but god, you were so good at making him feel like you were. You were around so often, always so sweet in your way — sometimes, it felt like you really did belong to him. The thought of his girl with someone else makes him feel like puking.

Jealousy radiates from him like steam, palpable enough for you to feel. 

You grin.

“Don’t worry, Teddy,” you singsong, taking another goddamn step closer. Eddie knows he should be taking a thousand more backward, but your chest brushes his torso and he forgets how to walk. “I only have eyes for you.”

The boy swallows through a tightening throat. He nods for a moment, trying to work up the courage to use his voice. He’s scared that it’ll break, and he’ll lose all cool points with you. And he’s the rockstar, the older brother’s best friend — he can’t possibly have that.

“Good to know,” Eddie finally nods.

“Don’t keep me waiting too long, though. Might have to find some other metalhead to give me attention.”

Your smile widens when his jaw clenches, honeyed glaze hardening at the thought of you finding someone else. Your heart flutters when you realize that he sees you as his. He’s already been yours for a long, long time.

Gareth calls your name from a distance, muffled and far away. It’s nearly inaudible, but it knocks Eddie from his stupor all the same. “You should go, princess.” 

“My parents usually go to bed around nine. Gareth’s usually sucking in the ceiling by eleven,” you maunder suddenly, wide eyes sparkling with roguishness. “If you park your van a few houses down around midnight, no one will be the wiser…”

“You want me to sneak into your bedroom?” Eddie laughs softly to himself. He hasn’t done that since he was sixteen. He thought he was over chasing girls like that. Turns out, he wasn’t really. Not when it came to you, at least.

“Uh-huh,” you hum with a firm nod, lips wrapping around the red straw of your slushy right after.

“And what’s in it for me, huh?”

Truth be told, Eddie couldn’t give a shit. He already knows he’ll be at your house at 12 o’clock sharp, climbing up your trellis like some kind of offbeat Spiderman. He just wants to hear you tell him something, anything — a wish for him to go on for the next several hours while he’s stuck dealing in the heat, thinking about you.

You don’t answer him with words.

You rise on the tips of your toes, holding onto your Slurpee with one hand and using your free one to cup his cheek. You usher the boy softly towards you as you press your mouth to his. And it’s not the most heated kiss in the world or anything — just a languid, honeyed thing that makes your lips lock like they were made to do it.

Eddie’s idling hands rise to your waist. His ringed fingers squeeze the bare skin of your sides as he sighs against your mouth. You taste cold and sweet — like blue raspberry and ice and lipgloss — his savior in this heat. The tip of his nose smushes against the side of yours, desperate to melt with you entirely. He thinks it might be close to possible, having you so close in the sweltering summer evening.

He’s breathless when you pull away from him.

“More of that,” you answer through labored breaths. “And maybe a little extra, if you’re good.”

Eddie doesn’t bother denying his want for you anymore. Fuck it, he’ll just fight his best friend. He can take a punch if he has to, but he’s not sure Gareth could even throw one — especially not at the boy he’s known for practically half his life.

“Your bedroom’s the last window on the light, right?” Eddie asks through rosy, kiss-bitten lips.

“Yeah,” you grin, backing slowly away from him. “I’ll leave my light on.”

He nods until the words catch up with him. “Okay.”

“See you then, Teddy.”

When you turn the corner for the main parking lot, Eddie can finally breathe again. 

The air is noticeably less sweet without you around.

[avelera]

Ok, I feel like there's three writing concepts that Tumblr needs to get reacquainted with when it comes to understanding fiction:

Catharsis - Sometimes, fiction engages with horrifying, disgusting, painful, or scary concepts in order to bring about a positive experience for the reader. This can be through the hero defeating a disgusting evil, like defeating an abuser for example. One might also get catharsis not out of the defeat of something bad or uncomfortable, but simply from the experience of living it vicariously, such as joy at successfully hiding the body of a murder victim. There are literally countless examples of catharsis in fiction, but most importantly it must be understood, it is completely harmless to real people whether you're experiencing catharsis at something good happening or something bad happening that you get to live vicariously because it is literally fiction. Indeed, there's a lot of evidence that getting to experience catharsis through fiction at evil things, say, living vicariously through a fictional character committing adultery, even if you would never want to cheat on your own partner, actually helps purge the desire to do evil things oneself.

Pleasures of the genre - some genres have expectations that go with them. If you, as a writer, don't include those pleasures, you might turn off the audience. For example, the Western genre has a certain expectation of being set in the 19th c American West. There's usually cowboys and horses involved. If you write a story that's advertised as a "Western" that takes place entirely in a New York City apartment, it might be novel for the genre, but it might also piss off a bunch of readers who were expecting horses. You can do it, obviously, but don't be surprised if readers are confused and perhaps disinterested in the work. More salient to Tumblr perhaps - Marvel believes it is creating action/adventure superhero stories. If a Marvel movie suddenly became a psychological exploration of the internality of a character's relationships, without a single laser beam or fight scene in sight, Marvel expects its audience to be confused and unhappy. We, as fanfic writers and readers might be dying for that story, but that is not the pleasure of the genre that Marvel thinks its audience wants when it walks specifically into a superhero film.

Power Fantasy - this might be one of the most misunderstood or perhaps narrowly applied terms. Yes, sometimes a power fantasy is a 16 year old boy watching a superhero dude with 8 pack abs destroy the bad guy, get the girl, and save the day. Living vicariously through that character is definitely a power fantasy. BUT, a power fantasy can also be fantastical things that the audience wishes would happen in a way that would empower an audience member or make them happy. For example, a billionaire industrialist merchant of death like Tony Stark getting hit by his own weapons and deciding to become a crusader for justice in a way that actually helps normal people is, in fact, an audience power fantasy. We want to believe that if the right bad guy like a billionaire got the right comeuppance like a near-death experience at the hands of their own evils, they'd learn their lesson and become a better person. This is a power fantasy. This is not a thing that actually happens. It's honestly not that different from the power fantasy many gun owners have that if they own a gun, they're more likely to stop a crime in progress with their perfect marksmanship, rather than that they're more likely to kill or be killed by a member of their own family. Understanding the application of power fantasies in terms of good things you hope would happen happening in fiction is not only important for dissecting fiction as an intelligent viewer, it's also important in terms of recognizing when you're being influenced by certain stories and choosing what lesson you take away from it and what lesson (if any) you want to take away from it.

I just feel like these 3 terms are what I see most lacking in a lot of "discourse". Fiction is trying to engender emotion in the audience. Great fiction engenders a wide range of emotions in the viewer, not simply good emotions. Thoughtful fiction might (but not always!) try to impart a lesson. But great fiction can also just want to give you great emotions and make you think outside the usual box of your usual experiences. It's also completely fine for great fiction to just want to give you a great emotion experience like catharsis, or the thrill of a power fantasy. And I really wish these three separate but interrelated concepts were discussed more when it comes to dissecting fiction here on this site.

[landwriter]

Hi! I hope you feel better soon!

This is a great prompt by @academicblorbo about Hob Gadling being the landlord of the Dead Boys. It has a wonderful fill already by @omgcinnamoncakes but I’d love to see what you come up with for it!

Alternative prompt from me if that doesn’t work for your brain: remember the date between Jenny and Maxine? How about one between Jenny and Esther? Poor Jenny is going to really question her taste in beautiful blonde women 😭

Thank you! I saw ‘landlord’ and ‘decades’ and blacked out. I love Hob having them as tenants. Maybe even before the modern day meeting in Sandman.

The Sandman/Dead Boy Detectives, 2.4k, G Dream/Hob, pre-slash, alternating/outsider POV, found family, a reunion and revelations etc.

---

Hob did not, strictly speaking, have tenants. It was more of a minor haunting. Pun intended.

The small room above the pub and below his flat wasn’t worth charging anyone rent for; when he first bought the building he had put a handsome oak desk in there and some bookshelves before wondering who he was possibly keeping up appearances for. Who was he going to take back upstairs that would stop and say, Wait, can I see your office? So he’d left it as more or less an abandoned room.

When he realized a pair of boys were using it as their clubhouse, he didn’t do anything at first. He saw them quietly coming and going a couple times, disappearing around the corner of the first landing. Brazen things. He meant to call after them, but the shout had died in his throat. He’d been young once. He still remembered the need to get away from it all. It was only when he went to check if they’d been making a mess of the room that he discovered it was still locked.

He’d crouched down and inspected the latch and found no marks at all. Huh, he’d said, and jiggled it again, and been a little more interested in whatever clever way they were getting into it after they disappeared up his stairs. Then he didn’t see them for weeks, and assumed they had gotten bored and stopped.

Until they came back. In the middle of an argument, striding through the pub like they owned it. Hob straightened up as they passed him.

“I cannot believe you broke the mirror.”

“I was in a rush! It’s not my fault you forgot you needed Arcana Incantatum after we arrived at the church. And found the demon.”

“I hardly forgot, I only made the mistake of assuming you would know to pack it by now.”

Hob raised his eyebrows. The boys disappeared into the back hallway. He followed them as they went upstairs, too preoccupied with their drama to notice Hob. They turned onto the landing, still carrying on. Even as they walked through the door. The locked, closed door.

Hob blinked. Then he drew his keys from his pocket and opened the door. The boys were still inside. One of them was pulling a mirror out of a backpack that was several times too small for it. They didn’t even look up, and Hob wondered how he couldn’t possibly have put it together earlier. He cleared his throat.

“Hello, boys.” That caught their attention. Hob grinned. “Seems we’re neighbours.”

---

Edwin abhorred getting involved with the living. He and Charles got along perfectly well on their own. They were a duo. An intrepid pair. Best mates, like Charles often stressed whenever he was about to ask something particularly ridiculous of Edwin. They were solid together. As solid as two ghost boys could be. The living, though, were messy and unpredictable.

Perhaps the most salient fact at present: Charles invariably became attached to them.

“He’s sad, mate. I can see it in his eyes.”

“You said those exact words in ‘94 about a dog. At least ask Hob himself.”

Before you decide to adopt him too.

Hob Gadling, irritatingly, was unobjectionable on every ground Edwin could think of. He had made no imposition upon them. When he found them, he only asked them their business, and then told them he was usually downstairs, or upstairs, if they needed anything they couldn’t procure themselves. He had an interest in rare and old books, as it happened. In explaining this, he had also hinted at being far older than his looks would suggest, which vexed Edwin twice over. He knew his curiosity would not be slaked until he talked to Hob, but then he would be the one getting involved with the living, and Charles would hardly let him forget it.

“Do you think he’s really immortal? Mate’s far too calm. Last week I saw him stop a fight downstairs by stepping right between these huge blokes. He just said something and smiled and they backed right off.” Charles lit up. “Do you reckon he’d teach me how to do that? Conflict de-escalation, innit? I could show him some moves with the cricket bat, I bet. Oh, do you think he’s a cricket fan?”

It was obviously a hopeless case, and since the Dead Boy Detectives never took on hopeless cases, there was only one course of action that remained. Edwin had long since disabused himself of the notion he needed to breathe. He had no beating heart, yet when he was startled, he would find himself clutching his chest. Now, he exhaled slowly through his nose in an entirely superfluous sigh of resignation. “Well, Charles, shall we go talk to him?”

---

When the millennium came around, Hob found himself celebrating it with his accidental tenants. There was something gloriously satisfying about being able to make a toast to the next one and have it taken seriously. He’d asked them if they had something better to do - spectral trouble to get into et cetera - and they both looked at him with almost identical put-upon and incredulous expressions.

Hob had a terrible suspicion they thought they were taking care of him as much as he thought he was taking care of them.

Edwin, with his insatiable curiosity and, deep underneath it, something Hob thought he recognized from himself: a sharp animal ferocity and a refusal to go until he’s good and done, natural laws be damned. Charles, still brightly, painfully alive for a ghost - who should be alive still, by all rights, but nothing of this life was fair - who joked to cover up hurt in a way Hob knew too, and glowed any time Hob turned so much as a kind word to him.

He wondered what they saw when they looked at him.

The year ticked over, and technology kept working. Charles grinned innocently and said he could probably possess the telly and break it that way if Hob wanted?

Hob’s heart twinged. He knew they weren’t his, not to keep, but it seemed that teenagers didn’t change at all over the centuries, even if the boys were only sort of teenagers in the way Hob was only sort of in his thirties. It didn’t change that they’d been punted from the mortal coil before having a chance to grow up, and figure out the kind of men they were, and make their own choices and fuck up and try to be better than their fathers, and everything everyone deserved. Hob had made more than his share of mistakes. They hadn’t been given the chance to make nearly any at all.

So they made toasts to the new millennium, to the detective agency, to themselves, all stuck out of time in different ways and refusing to move on for different reasons, and Hob allowed himself to think of Robyn and privately pretend that they were his all the same.

---

A week later, Hob was reminded of the other universal traits of teenagers when he mentioned his stranger and both boys began to grill him with terrifying alacrity. Before turning to his dating life, like ravening bloody wolves. When Edwin had asked, in a specifically nineteenth century manner that Hob remembered all too well, if Hob had always been unmarried, he’d nearly put his head in his hands.

“It can be hard for me to associate with the living too, you know. For obvious reasons.”

Charles had turned to Edwin and hissed “See? I told you.”

Right in front of him. Nobody had taught them manners.

“Manners, Charles,” replied Edwin loftily. “We will, of course, respect your privacy. A man is entitled to his secrets.”

“You’ll go upstairs and rifle through my personal things, is what you’ll do,” said Hob.

Charles coughed to hide his laugh. Edwin flushed and looked away. Hob snorted, and told them about Eleanor and Robyn. Properly. It was a strange relief. He’d told the story wrong for plausibility’s sake so many times he had been worried he’d forget the truth of it one day.

They had listened, and been remarkably quiet until Charles piped up and offered to set him up with a ‘really fit’ ghost. Hob had roundly shut that down. Woefully, not all explanations were satisfying enough. Charles cornered him again the next morning while he was cleaning the bar.

“No, mate, I still don’t get it.” Hob was about to say he no more wanted to be with someone who couldn’t feel pleasure from his touch than someone who would grow old and be taken from him while he stayed the same, when Charles went on, bafflingly, to ask, “Why don’t you meet your mysterious friend more often than once a century?”

Hob sighed. “Adults are often busy, Charles.” Nevermind that he had begun to wonder the same since the eighteenth century. He’d always just assumed time passed differently for his stranger.

Charles just laughed and perched himself on the bar top. “Ooh, low blow. We’re busy too, you know. Plenty of cases to solve.”

“Really,” said Hob. “You’re busy. Right now.”

Charles waggled his eyebrows.

“Charles, I am not a case,” said Hob, sternly as possible. “I’m not even a ghost. He’s not a ghost. No ghosts.”

“We could investigate. Maybe ghosts are involved. What even is he? Why every hundred years? Is it some sort of Persephone situation?”

Hob bit his lip against shouting I don’t know! I don’t know anything about him! Instead, he tried to smile, and felt it come out as a wince instead. “He’s very private.”

Charles scowled. “Yeah, obviously. You don’t even know his name. He can’t be that good of a friend if he’s too busy to see you more than once a century.”

Hob couldn’t see the expression on his own face, but he saw Charles’ shocked reaction well enough. It was so long ago for him, and still Hob knew at once what Charles saw now: that first time you manage to visibly hurt a grown-up’s feelings, people who seemed too old and too stern to actually feel pain, when you’d been going around kicking at them like a new foal, just to stretch your legs.

“Sorry,” said Charles, instant regret chasing his surprise. He was a good kid.

“It’s alright,” said Hob. He meant it. He looked down at the shining bartop. His hands were restless with the urge to light a cigarette. He gave in. It wasn’t like Charles would be dying of lung cancer any time soon if he decided to follow Hob’s example. “I don’t think he would say he’s very good at being a friend either. Truth is, I’d love to see him more often. But we had an awful fight the last time we met. If he forgives me, I’ll have to ask.”

“Mates always make up,” said Charles earnestly. He was such a good kid.

“I suppose they do.” Charles still looked sorry, and Hob clapped him on the shoulder. “Hey. Thanks for looking out for me, Charles.”

Charles beamed at him. “Always. We’ve got your back, me and Edwin.”

---

Charles couldn’t bloody believe it. Hob’s friend was here. There was nobody else it could be. He and Edwin were watching from a nearby table, pretending to be absorbed in their own conversation. Neither man noticed them. They were too busy looking at each other.

He couldn’t imagine spending more than a century apart from Edwin. The way Hob had talked about him and his stranger over the years, it sometimes seemed like they were best mates too, no matter how little they saw each other. He was dead sure that’s what had Hob looking so gutted when he thought nobody was looking. He had known they would make up, though. Maybe now Hob would be happier.

“Charles, we really ought not eavesdrop,” hissed Edwin. Right as he scooted his chair closer, the cheeky hypocrite. Hob and his friend were talking too quietly to properly hear, their heads bent together. Lots to catch up on, Charles reckoned. A hundred years. He couldn’t stop thinking about the number. It seemed impossible. Funny, he couldn’t imagine that long away from Edwin, but he could imagine spending that long being best mates. There was nobody he’d rather hide from Death with.

Hob’s face was doing something strange as his long-lost friend talked. Then Hob moved and grasped him by the shoulders, so tight that his knuckles stood out in relief. The man said something in low tones and Hob shook his head, and then pulled him in for a hug. The man stiffened and then relaxed, and his arms came up around Hob’s.

Their cheeks both looked wet.

Charles swallowed and it felt suddenly a little like he was choking. He should look away, only he couldn’t.

“They must be great friends,” said Edwin softly.

“Yeah,” he managed to croak. We won’t ever need to have a reunion like this because I’m never going to lose you, mate. I won’t let them take you. It was stuck behind the phantom lump in his phantom throat. His hand, without him telling it to, reached out and grabbed hold of Edwin’s. Edwin squeezed it hard, and Charles knew he didn’t have to make his voice work after all.

Then the man pushed Hob away, but only far enough to grab his face and pull him back again, thumbing over Hob’s cheeks, and beside him, Edwin honest-to-god gasped, and then Charles momentarily forgot how thoughts worked too.

---

It happens thus: in the New Inn, just next door to the White Horse, some 639 years after they first met, Hob Gadling and Dream of the Endless share their first kiss. Neither, if they had bothered to think about it, would have intended to have an audience, but it’s a well-known fact that some kisses cannot wait, and theirs was chief among them, being that it had so much to say, and was so very long overdue.

I missed you, it said, and I came back, it said, and Please don’t go away from me again, and I could not.

And atop them, like blankets, were laid invisible the daydreams of those who saw them, including two long-dead boys, whose dreams were woven from the fresh and unaccounted-for possibilities of Hob kissing his mysterious stranger. Another man, thought Edwin. His best friend, thought Charles. Dream was the only one who could have heeded this, but he did not, because Hob Gadling was holding him tight and daydreaming loudly of this kiss and more, of this today and tonight and tomorrow, ever greedy and ever easily pleased, and Dream could hear nothing at all over their clamouring and comingled joy; the bright gold daydream between the scant space of their bodies that sounded so much like at last.

[demigirlboss2girlrotboogaloo]

Bitch there was not a war ongoing in 1936 when Stalin began purging the Communist Party to consolidate his power, and that purge combined with Stalin's staunch refusal to acknowledge that his bestie Hitler could possibly betray him and invade him directly resulted in immense losses in the early days of the Nazi invasion of Russia (Stalin not only refused to acknowledge forewarnings of Nazi preparations for invasion, he also ignored the early reports of invading forces from frontline troops, and when it finally became apparent that sticking his head in the sand wasn't going to fix his colossal fuckup he went catatonic for two days while his fresh-faced officers corps with no prior battle experience whatsoever and barely any time spent in the service got absolutely massacred because he'd purged basically all of his veterans several years ago).

The Soviet Union absofuckinglutely was authoritarian as shit and gargling Stalin's balls puts you a stone's throw away from Bismarck-worshipping Wehraboos. Those who do not study history are doomed to repeat it, but those who worship the past will forever remain trapped therein. It's important to acknowledge the foundational thoughts and teachings which guide modern iterations of a movement, but you cannot and should not take the writings of someone from a hundred years ago in their entirety as gospel because you agree with the core ideas. Instead, adapt their philosophy to your current circumstances, and for the love of God do it without thinking about the credentials of the person you're citing. If an idea really is worthwhile and deserving of being a core pillar of your worldview and system of ethics, it shouldn't need to be prefaced with "according to Marx/Trotsky/Bakhunin/Makhno/Kropotkin/Lenin," it should stand on its own. If it can't hold weight without a big name behind it, the pillars of your philosophy aren't ideas, they're names.

it's interesting how so many "authoritarian" things anticommunists associate with communism were emergancy measures during war. "wtf look how paranoid the commies were that someone could betray them, that is NOT normal" [country is actively being invaded]